Wednesday, June 17, 2015
It has rained every day since I’ve been back from California. There is rain under the rain, over the rain, around the rain, through the rain, behind the rain, in front of the rain, rain on rain.
The ground is rain. I mowed the grass yesterday and walked in rain. It is so rainy, the mosquitoes are using umbrellas. The bullfrogs have been displaced and moved to higher ground. The birds eschew birdbaths because they’re already soaking wet and their babies are cranky. Robins are joining the obesity epidemic, as all they do now is stand in one place and catch the escaping, drowning worms.
I watched last night as the trees of my forest lifted themselves out of the ground and shook their mushy roots. And all of my vegetables pulled themselves out of the garden and were on my front porch, begging to get in where it is dry.
The rivers are swollen with rain. The Missouri is out of its banks and flooding the shore trees. The Mississippi has widened to capacity and is still rising. Piasa Creek is eight feet deep.
My shoes are wet, my boots are wet, my shirts are wet, my socks are wet, my cowboy hats are wet, my underwear is . . . well, that is a separate issue.
It is not raining men—yet.
Scout the Cat is sun deprived. Her fur is limp. She has stopped lying on the window sill—what’s the point? She won’t indulge in her favorite activity: chewing on the daily plastic newspaper sleeves—they’re wet.
Wild animals are cranky, pets are cranky, hikers are cranky, farmers are cranky, sellers of water are cranky, the Cleveland Cavaliers and LeBron James (“the greatest player in the world”) are cranky . . . well, that is a separate issue.
Even my spiders are lethargic. There are no insects to catch—they’ve all moved to sere California. I observed thirty spiders on my wall last night, toweling themselves off and watching TV. My fossils are humid and on the verge of reanimating.
I am building an ark. It has the right biblical dimensions of cubits and no Russell Crowe hamming it up as Noah. I forgot to lock the ship’s door and now it is full of wet squirrels drying their nuts.
“Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” Langston Hughes “Rain is grace.” John Updike “Thank you for the rain.” Garrison Keillor “Into each life some rain must fall.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Expect three more days of intense rain.” St. Louis Post Dispatch “Rain this.” Eugene Baldwin
My soul is wet, my self esteem is wet, my mood is wet, my dreams are wet, my sensibilities are wet, my aura is wet, my wet bar is wet, my dry bar is wet, my feminine side is wet . . .
Well, that is a separate issue.
